


He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

by quake_quiver



Series: Ten Trails Challenge: Trail 6 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bruised and battered Dean, Caring Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lost A Fight, Pre-Canon, Shippy Gen, Sick Sam Winchester, could be read as gen or wincest tbh, sam is 15 and dean is 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quake_quiver/pseuds/quake_quiver
Summary: Sam’s glassy, fever-dazed eyes get a little wider as he takes in the state of Dean’s face. He reaches a hand up and his fingertips ghost along Dean’s swollen nose and bruising cheekbone, gently avoiding the shadow of his black eye. Sam’s thumb, hot from fever, lands on Dean’s busted lip and lingers.“You got in a fight,” Sam says. It isn’t a question. “Why? What happened?”
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Ten Trails Challenge: Trail 6 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955320
Comments: 2
Kudos: 77





	He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the prompt "lost a fight" from the 9th. I actually like how this one turned out quite a bit--please enjoy!!

It’s only midday, but Dean tries to come into the motel room quietly so he doesn’t wake Sam. As soon as he opens the door, however, he sighs.

Sam’s sitting up in bed. His eyes lock on Dean and he follows his brother’s movements as Dean kicks off his snow-covered boots and shrugs out of his jacket.

“Dean?” Sam says hoarsely, sounding like he’s five instead of fifteen. “What happened?”

“Nothin’,” Dean says, digging through his jacket pockets where it hangs on the back of a chair. “Nothin’ you need to be worrying about, anyway.”

Dean’s back is to the bed, but there’s the telltale sound of blankets rustling, and Sam’s shuffling feet on the questionable motel carpet.

“Get back in bed,” he says without turning around. “You’re sick enough as it is.”

Sam coughs grossly, coming up next to Dean’s elbow and scrutinizing his brother’s movements before his eyes catch on his face.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Sam points out.

Dean sighs, curses the universe for meddling strangers and sickly brothers, and finally turns to look Sam in the face.

Sam’s glassy, fever-dazed eyes get a little wider as he takes in the state of Dean’s face. He reaches a hand up and his fingertips ghost along Dean’s swollen nose and bruising cheekbone, gently avoiding the shadow of his black eye. Sam’s thumb, hot from fever, lands on Dean’s busted lip and lingers.

“You got in a fight,” Sam says. It isn’t a question. “Why? What happened?”

“Someone thought I was stealing,” Dean says, taking the chance to evaluate Sammy. He’s shivering still, even shrouded in Dean’s warmest sweatshirt and his thickest sweatpants, and his pale face is devoid of any color other than a blotchy strip of fever flush across his cheekbones and over his nose.

Sam’s hand pulls away so he can cough roughly into his elbow for a moment, wheezing when he finally catches his breath. “Were you?”

“How about we have this conversation later, hmm?” Dean asks. “You need to be back in bed.”

Sam makes a face. His eyes dart to the first aid kit in the corner.

“Sam,” Dean warns. “I’m fine. They’re just bruises. You need to be laying down.”

Sam stares him down for a long moment. Dean is cold and tired and really wants some ibuprofen for his nose, and _really_ doesn’t want to have to have a battle of wills with his younger brother.

Dean breaks first. His whole face aches and his knuckles don’t feel so hot, either, so he detours into the bathroom. He’s aware of Sam following him, the kid wheezing and coughing the whole way.

“Sammy, please go lay down,” Dean begs, turning on the faulty sink faucet. “You sound like dogshit. You get any worse and I’m gonna have to drag your ass to urgent care.”

Sam just leans against the doorframe, shaking his head and crossing his arms. “I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Dean splashes water onto his face, taking an extra moment to scrub the cold water into his eyes. He washes off his bleeding knuckles, then towels everything dry before he faces Sam again.

“I’m all good now. Tell you what, I’ll grab myself an ice pack if you go lay down.”

It’s a weak deal, and they both know it, but Dean’s desperate. Sam’s about one wrong cough away from the bad side of pneumonia, and Dean can’t let that happen.

Sam shudders through another wave of coughs, but then he nods. Dean rests a hand on his back and walks Sam back to the bed, watching his brother climb under the covers.

Satisfied that Sam will stay put for at least a few minutes, Dean heads for their first aid kit and swallows a few ibuprofen dry. He does the sloppiest job taping up his knuckles that he’s ever done, then grabs one of those instant cold packs out of the first aid kit and swipes a packet out of his jacket pocket.

Sam’s been watching his every move. His eyes narrow at the packet in Dean’s hand.

“Alright, Sammy,” Dean says, sitting on the edge of the bed and tearing open the packet. “Got you some antibiotics.”

Sam’s eyes narrow even further. He frowns, his eyebrows furrowed, and watches Dean pop out a dose of pills. “How did you get those? I thought we ran out of money a couple days ago.”

“We did,” Dean confirms, feeling his irritation toward their father spike. John left them here because Sam was sick, but he didn't leave them with nearly enough money.

“You stole those,” Sam murmurs.

Dean sighs. “You need them, Sam. I can’t let you get any sicker.”

Sam blinks at him, eyes big. With his rampant bedhead and wearing Dean’s clothes that are too big for him, he really looks like a kid. Dean’s heart aches.

“You coulda gotten in so much trouble,” Sam says. “You could have…they arrest you for stealing medicine. And then you wouldn’t have come back, and…”

“Hey,” Dean says, voice gentle. “None of that. Someone on the street saw them in my pocket. Thought they were pain pills or something and wanted ‘em.”

“That’s not any better,” Sam says, struggling to sit up. Dean doesn’t like how wound up he’s getting. “They could have really hurt you, Dean. They _did_ hurt you. And I wasn’t—I wasn’t there to help.”

“Sam, stop it,” Dean says, a little more commanding this time. “I’m _fine_. He just roughed me up a little. I’ve had worse, you know that.”

Sam’s eyes are starting to swim with tears, and Dean knows he needs to defuse this situation _now_.

“You shouldn’t have stolen for me,” Sam says emphatically, voice frantic. “I’m okay. I didn’t need you to do that. You—what if you didn’t come back? And I never saw you again? I can’t—please don’t get in trouble because of me. I’m not worth it.”

“God, Sammy, take it easy,” Dean urges, watching tears slide down Sam’s pale face, his shoulders heaving with panting breaths. “I’m here, okay? I came back. You aren’t gonna lose me, just like I’m not gonna lose you, but I had to get these meds for you. We gotta get you on the mend. And I dunno where this crap about you not being worth it is coming from, but you are. You’re worth everything, Sam, okay? Just take it easy for a minute.”

Sam sniffles, hiding his face in his elbow as his breathing catches in another round of hacks. When it ends, he crashes into Dean’s chest. Dean nearly drops the pills, so he leans over to set them carefully on the nightstand before he wraps his arms around his ailing brother.

“Take it easy,” Dean says quietly. “It was just a fight. I’m okay, I certainly ain’t going anywhere. Okay?”

Sam nods, his burning face pressed against Dean’s neck.

“Okay,” Dean says for the both of them, running a hand up and down Sam’s quivering spine. “We’re okay.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Sam collecting himself slowly, and Dean waits until Sam’s just quietly resting against him to try bringing up the medicine again.

“How about some medicine, Sam? Hmm?”

Sam pulls back a little so he can look Dean in the eyes. He frowns. Dean watches Sam take in his injuries again, and then his eyes dart to the pills on the nightstand. Dean. Antibiotics. Dean. Antibiotics.

“Okay,” Sam whispers.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. “You eat any of the crackers I left while I was gone?”

Sam wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.

“Alright, well,” Dean says, shifting so he can comfortably reach the things on the nightstand and keep Sam against his side. “We gotta fix that, cause I’m pretty sure you can’t take antibiotics on an empty stomach.”

“You do it all the time,” Sam says a touch petulantly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ve done it twice, Sam. Only did it a second time because I forgot. Made me hurl both times, and I really don’t think that needs to be added to your list of symptoms here.”

Sam doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t argue when Dean hands him the sleeve of saltines, so he counts it as a win.

Dean fishes around for the remote. Sam has this thing about people watching him eat, so Dean watches the TV on low volume instead, although he listens to Sam chew the crackers.

Sam clears his throat a few minutes later. “Can I be done with these?”

Dean turns to look at him, examining the sleeve. “How many did you eat?”

“Four,” Sam answers. “I don’t want any more. I’m not hungry.”

“That’s okay,” Dean says. “That should be good enough.”

Sam leans over and shoves the crackers back onto the nightstand before he burrows back under Dean’s arm.

“Med time,” Dean hums, grabbing Sam’s water glass from this morning and the dose of pills he’d gotten out earlier. He hands them over to Sam, watching to make sure his brother won’t drop the glass. Sam takes the pills one at a time, swallowing them both with a big sip of water.

Dean takes the glass from him. He sets it on the nightstand again, and then moves to get up. Sam’s arms snake around him and constrict around his middle. When Dean looks down, Sam’s eyes are round and anxious.

“I’m just taking off my shoes and changing my pants,” Dean explains, and Sam’s arms fall away.

Dean kicks off his boots and exchanges his jeans for pajama pants. He double-checks the salt lines in the room and makes sure the door and windows are locked. John’s truck is still nowhere to be seen, and Dean tamps down a spike of irritation. Leave it to their father to leave them behind for days, one kid sick as all hell and the other forced to steal meds and food. Leave it to Dean to let it slide, every time.

Dean sighs, forcing down the agitation (because that’s him. Always forcing things down to keep the peace) and returns to the task at hand—taking care of his kid.

“Scoot over,” he says to Sam, perching on the edge of the bed. Sam coughs a couple of times and obliges, sliding more toward one side of the bed instead of taking up the center. Dean slips under the covers, slips an arm around Sam’s bony waist, and pulls him against him.

Sam makes a squawky, highly undignified noise as he’s moved that makes Dean laugh.

“What happened to no chick flick moments?” Sam wheezes, wiggling around in an attempt to get comfortable.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Dean says, feigning innocence. “Just looking out for my ailing brother. No chick flicks here.”

Sam starts laughing, but the sound gets drowned out pretty quick by a coughing fit. Dean rubs his back through it, grimacing at the way he can feel Sam’s muscles jumping. When it ends, they both lay in the quiet for a moment, Sam shifting again so he can lay his head on Dean’s chest, his sweaty hair tickling Dean’s chin.

Dean returns his attention to the TV that’s still going. Sam’s hot with fever, and it’s starting to make Dean uncomfortably warm, but he ignores it, letting one hand play with Sam’s hair and keeping one ear tuned in to the quality of Sam’s breathing.

Dean’s half sure that Sam’s asleep when the kid clears his throat and makes him jump.

“De?”

“Hmm?”

“Please don’t leave again.”

Dean looks away from the TV, glancing down to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam’s frowning at him, those big puppy eyes out in full force.

“I won’t, Sammy,” Dean says quietly, his free hand coasting along Sam’s back. “I promise.”

Sam seems satisfied enough with this, and he really is asleep a few minutes later. Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, prodding gently at his aching bruises.

He settles in to try to get some rest as well. Taking care of Sam nonstop for the past few days has tired him out, not to mention the fight in the street today.

Dean doesn’t care. He’ll do it all again for Sam in a heartbeat. Everything. Anything. He’d die and go to Hell for the kid if he needed to.

“Love you,” Dean whispers. He buries a kiss in Sam’s messy waves, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.


End file.
